The Making of a Gentleman by Shana Galen

“do you have any plans for commencing instruction?”
    It was a good question, one she would have asked herself if she had been in the duc’s place. Felicity wished she had had more time to formulate a plan. As it was, she had an idea, but was not at all certain how successful it would prove. “I had thought I might use pictures and link them with words,” Felicity said quietly. “If you would be so kind as to furnish me with some paper, I will draw images and the words. For example, I might draw a cat, show the comte the picture of the cat, and then teach him the word.”
    It had been a vague idea in the back of her mind, but now that she said it aloud, it seemed very promising. She could draw a dozen pictures tonight in preparation for the lessons in the morning. Felicity smiled, but no one around her spoke.
    She cleared her throat and took another sip of Madeira. Finally, the duc rose and went to a side table where a decanter of burgundy liquid sat. He refilled his glass, and then turned to her. “We’ve tried that. It didn’t work.”
    Felicity blinked. “Oh.” Suddenly, her legs felt unsteady and too light to support her body. She wished she could sit, but no one had invited her to do so, and the dowager was still standing. Then another idea hit her like a ray of sunlight. “Perhaps I might show the comte actual objects, for example, a flower, and teach him the word that way.”
    The duchesse smiled weakly. “We’ve tried that, as well. However, just because a method did not work for us, does not mean it will not prove beneficial to you. After all, you have already forged a special connection with the comte.”
    Felicity glanced at the pianoforte on the other side of the room. She had been studiously avoiding looking at it until now because she was afraid seeing it again would cause memories of being held in the comte’s arms to return. But her fears were for naught. The incident this morning seemed to have happened in another lifetime, to another person.
    In fact, Felicity was certain it had only been the passions aroused by the music that had caused her to feel anything more than surprise when the comte had taken her into his arms. It had just been the residual passion of the music that made her heart race.
    And then the drawing-room doors opened again. The comte stood framed in the doorway, dressed much as he had been this afternoon. He wore no tailcoat and no cravat, but his shirt was clean and starched. The sleeves were rolled at the wrist, and Felicity could see the bronze-corded skin of his arms. His buff breeches were tight, showing off legs that were muscled and well-shaped. But he wore no stockings or shoes. Many men would have looked ridiculous with bare calves and feet, but it only made the comte look more masculine. His one concession appeared to be his hair. The unruly mass she had observed this morning had been caught back in a neat queue, hinting at a thin layer of civilization beneath the overwhelming air of feral sensuality. He glanced at her, eyes smoldering with primitive heat, and the room reeled. Her ears rang with a whooshing sound, and she fumbled with her glass. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she lifted the glass to her lips and drank deeply. But the Madeira was finished far too quickly.
    She looked down, surprised to see her glass was empty. Then she looked up again, into the cobalt eyes of the man in the doorway, and she found she was still very, very thirsty.

Five
    Seated across from the yellow-haired woman, Armand was having difficulty focusing on dinner. There were many Rules to eating with others, which was why he generally preferred to eat alone in his room. Some of the Rules, however, were vaguely familiar. Armand thought that if he reached far enough back into his murky memories, he might remember having learned these Rules.
    But there were so many memories. And many were bad, very bad, and Armand did not care enough about the Rules for eating to go to those